


As If They Were My Own

by deathwailart



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Durin Family Feels, Family, Family Feels, Gen, Homesickness, Mending Clothes, Protective Uncle Thorin, Sharing a Bed, Uncle-Nephew Relationship, implied Bilbo/Bofur, more sharing a bedroll but that works, sharing food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:24:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on hobbit kink.  Thorin looking after his nephews on their journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As If They Were My Own

He held them first after they were born for he was king and it was a king's right, a lump in his throat each time as he let tiny fists grab, healthy lungs protesting mightily until in turn they were given to their mother. To have one child was rare enough, to have two so close together nothing short of miraculous even if they were born to the walls of Ered Luin and not to Erebor where they would have been presented before the court by his grandfather. They're good lads, Fíli and Kíli. He should know given the hand he had in raising them whenever he could spare the time, stern but fair uncle Thorin who made sure he provided whatever his heirs needed and wanted that was within his power to give.  
  
He is in two minds as to taking them on this quest, confides as much to Dís who isn't happy about letting her boys go but they both know that they need to prove themselves and that what Thorin seeks to reclaim is his as well so when she grips his hands across her table, the grip of a mother, stronger than that of any smith or warrior, pressing their foreheads together he knows he will abide by whatever she says.  
  
"Look after them Thorin, they are your heirs but they are my sons, boys I sweated and strained and bled for, kept safe within myself for long months."  
  
"I swear it sister," he replies with a ragged voice, "I will look after them as if they were my own."  
  
Neither of them say that he does so anyway and that he is not only uncle and king to his sister-sons but practically a father too.

* * *

  
  
Kíli has never been one for braids for they take too much time and he has never been good at staying still unless his mind is applied to a task such as at the forge or handling weapons. Thorin marvelled at first when he saw Kíli taking the time to line up his shots at the practice range, inhaling as he drew back, exhaling as he fired. He had thought that as his younger nephew aged that he might at least adopt some sort of braiding but he simply scrapes as much as he can back and away, held out of the way with the silver clasps salvaged from Erebor.  
  
"Ow!"  
  
The yelp drags him back to the present, looking down to where Kíli sits between his knees as he did when he was little, fiddling with his silver clasp to occupy his hands.  
  
"Hush boy, if you braided this bird's nest then perhaps it would not be full of knots and burrs at the end of the day," Thorin chides, continuing to untangle the mess of dark hair. At least Kíli's hair is fine and straight making it easier to drag the comb through it, the snarls coming free far quicker than they do when Thorin has to comb out his own hair. Next to him Fíli snorts and Kíli swings out a leg to give him a kick. "Dwarflings, the pair of you," he mutters in response to their antics but soon he is gathering Kíli's hair back, giving him a nudge in the back to hand over his clasp. He's not as good at this at Dís or even Fíli but it's Kíli and his hair will be wild again tomorrow anyway.  
  
"Thank you uncle," Kíli says when he's done, moving to sit next to Thorin on the log, grinning. Thorin's smile is not as wide and free but they know how to read him after all these years. Gruffly, so others do not think him to be soft, he mutters and hands Kíli the comb. "At least you look presentable as a prince should."  
  
Kíli just scoffs and elbows, acting like a nephew to his favourite (only) uncle and not a prince to his king. So Thorin feels no guilt when he shoves him off the log, watching with fond eyes as Fíli roars with laughter at Kíli's expression.

* * *

  
  
Fíli though, Fíli likes his braids and spent so many years practicing different styles until settling on what he wears now, moustache matching. Kíli is off talking to Bilbo and no doubt he's trying to horrify him with some story of orcs or goblins or wargs or perhaps tales of dwarven feasts and poor table manners. He should really intervene but there are more pressing matters to attend to this night, chiefly the elder of his heirs and his hair.  
  
"How did you get so many twigs in your hair lad?" Thorin asks as Fíli lights his pipe, taking a puff before answering. He doesn't have to fix Fíli's hair as often as Kíli's but he still knows how to untangle twigs and leaves from braids. (Really he doesn't have to do Fíli or Kíli's hair at all, they're not children now but it's comforting for all of them and what family do for one another so they say nothing and often they return the favour when they feel they can get away with disturbing him.)  
  
"Hunting, had to go traipsing through the bushes when our quarry startled," Fíli replies with a shrug, bending his neck before Thorin even has to ask him to. "Worth it though, dinner was fine fair."  
  
"Aye, that it was. Such meals can be few and far between."  
  
They settle into silence again, careful not to wake anyone up. Thorin doesn't want accusations of favouritism to follow them even though it could be excused and allowed, instead letting himself remember all the times he made Fíli presentable before introducing him to allies or friends, helping to teach him the braids princes wore or how best to keep hair out of one's face when working a forge or fighting. He takes longer than he needs to, Fíli quiet and contemplative and Thorin almost doesn't want to ask for the clasp that matches Kíli's but he does and then lights up his own pipe to share the watch with his heir. They talk of Erebor and the days that will come, their people strong and whole again until Fíli heads off to his bedroll, Nori relieving him for the next turn on watch.  
  
Thorin plucks at his harp and if his fingers pick out an old lullaby then that's his business and no one is about to question him.

* * *

  
  
Thorin learned many things in his exile that he never would have learned otherwise and one is how to repair clothing for fabric is and was expensive and what they have they must look after; until Kíli shot up in height, so many of his things had belonged to Fíli first, patched and repaired in places until finally they were only useful for rags in the forge. They're on the road so it's inevitable that they will have to mend their things and there are many nights around the fire where all their company are bent industriously with needles and thread. Bilbo mentions that it's mostly old women who do this sort of thing in the Shire, something about knitting parties and crochet until he is given such a look that he decides to go stretch his legs.  
  
Thorin doesn't need to stitch his own things – he's the king, he could command but he would not ask any of them to do such a thing for him – but sometimes Fíli will distract him so that Kíli can grab shirts or trousers and add them to their own pile. And sometimes, such as tonight, he takes one look at Fíli trying to thread his needle (he has good eyes but always struggles with it and gets frustrated with Kíli's offers to help) before giving up in disgust, stuffing the shirt into his pack before he makes himself comfortable, trying to get some sleep before it's his turn on watch. Bilbo returns and sits himself beside Kíli, the pair of them chatting quietly about this and that (he hears Bofur's name mentioned more than once and Kíli _giggles_ \- Thorin decides he doesn't want to know) rendered suitably distracted to allow Thorin to rifle through Fíli's pack.  
  
Come morning there is a mended shirt and at first Fíli thanks his brother, apologising for getting in a strop. Kíli's confusion is genuine and he drags Bilbo over to help protest his innocence, Bilbo agreeing that they were deep in conversation and that Kíli was not the one to repair said shirt.  It's forgotten soon enough in favour of Kíli catching his brother up on the gossip he missed, Bilbo sputtering and turning pink as he demands in aggrieved whispers for them not to stare at Bofur so.  Thorin smiles into his porridge, turning his mind to the day of travel ahead of them.

* * *

  
  
As their leader he is given the first and best serving of all meals because it is tradition and they cling doggedly to that. They give him space when they can and he is thankful for that because he needs some quiet, time to think and reflect on the day that has been and the days to come. Too often their supplies fall low but still his serving is best and biggest even though rumbling stomachs wake him instead of thundering snores. He notices Dori giving some of his own helping to Ori, Nori too, hears Dwalin growling 'I'm no' a wee badger' at one of Balin's questions, watches as Bombur keeps checking that Bofur and Bifur have enough and even Oin, using questions about Gimli, sneaks an extra spoon or two into Gloin's bowl. Bofur himself makes it his job to ensure that Bilbo has enough to eat, claiming it would not do to let their burglar become skin and bones. Bombur chokes the first time Bofur does so and even Bifur makes surprised squawks in Khuzdul.  
  
Fíli and Kíli don't show each other such courtesies beyond making sure they have an equal share. Thorin is not meant to share his food, it goes against their customs but he cannot let them go hungry, can't bear to watch their pinched expressions when the meal ends all too quickly so in his sharpest voice he barks for them, marching off into a secluded spot with his own bowl.  
  
"Here," he announces, "give me your bowls."  
  
"Uncle we're fine," Fíli protests with a scowl, "you don't need to do this. We're hardly little dwarflings now, we're fighters."  
  
"Exactly, you're the leader and you're king, you're the one who needs to eat more than us." Kíli is quick to join the argument, chin thrust forward, clutching his bowl to his chest.  
  
"I am done growing," Thorin knows he is not being fair when his voice drops down to a rumble, the voice he uses to make all heed his words, "but you two are not and I will not have you stumbling around tomorrow."  
  
"One night with little to eat won't have us swooning," Kíli argues.  
  
Fíli nods and picks up where his brother left off. "We'll be fine, not even mother would worry like this over us."  
  
"Do you know what tomorrow holds?" Thorin asks, voice pitched low and dangerous, fixing them with a hard look when they open their mouths to try to continue their argument. "You do not know, neither do I. I have known hunger and how to keep sharp even if it gnaws at me, I know that I can fight if I need to. But you two, you do not."  
  
They stare him out or rather they try to until they drop their heads but still make no move to hand him their bowls.  
  
"Must your king order you?"  
  
It makes them jump and suddenly there are two bowls held out to him as he spoons now cold stew into them. He watches them eat and nods in satisfaction when they march off to camp to collect the bowls to clean them. His stomach growls but he ignores it as he so often has, satisfied that for this night at least that they'll sleep well and wake with their usual energy.

* * *

  
  
"You haven't even grown into your beard yet lad!"  
  
Dwalin – Mister Dwalin still to Kíli – has known both of Thorin's heirs since they were small and can get away with teasing comments that others can't but sometimes he forgets that Kíli is still young and that he has a heavy weight upon his shoulders. Thorin can tell that Kíli's smile is strained around the edges because he's sensitive about one or two things and his beard happens to be one of them, marking him out as young and green. Already he tries to prove himself as best he can on their quest so that he might be seen as worthy, as strong and skilled and everything else he feels he needs to be. As soon as Kíli can leave the conversation he does, stomping in the direction of his pack where he sets about sharpening a dagger with angry, jerking motions. Everyone else, more or less, is huddled together in conversation when Thorin moves to join his nephew, pipe in hand.  
  
"You know for years your mother had more beard than I did." Kíli snorts and gives him a look of annoyed disbelief. "It's true; you can ask Balin or Dwalin if you don't believe me. I remember once," he takes a breath and he knows that his smile is softer around the edges, eyes faraway, "she had your uncle Frerin distract me with some mindless prattle, saying that I was needed in the armoury and off we both went. She snuck into my room and stole my clothes and marched pretending she was me." Kíli laughs quietly, shaking his head. It's clear that he doesn't want to laugh but he can't help it even though he rubs at his stubble, the dagger abandoned in his lap and then drags a hand through his hair.  
  
"I don't look like I should – I know the braids are my decision but they don't feel right, not yet – but it's taking so _long_ and even _Ori_ has more of a beard than I do and he's younger and-"  
  
Thorin manages not to laugh because it's easy to forget that Kíli is young when he can act so much older when he needs or chooses to, a young dwarf with a young dwarf's worries. He knows that Kíli idolised him when he was very small and he admires him still  
  
"You're young Kíli, don't rush to grow up. We live long lives, enjoy these years while you still can," Thorin tells him gruffly, slinging an arm around strong shoulders (when did they become so broad, it seems only moons ago that Kíli was begging for one more story, please uncle Thorin) until Kíli stops trying to resist, settling his head under Thorin's chin. "You haven't led the life you should have but you've lived a life blessed and charmed. Enjoy it lad."  
  
Kíli makes a soft noise of surprise and nods, arms around Thorin in a sudden hug. He knows what Thorin means when he talks like this because Thorin lost everything where Kíli and his brother have wanted for absolutely nothing. There are eyes upon them when Kíli finally lets go, testing the sharpness of his blade and sheathing it once more.  
  
"Thank you," he says so quietly the night almost swallows it, tentative smile on his face.  
  
That night Thorin dreams old dreams when the only dragon in Erebor was Dís chasing the brave warriors Thorin and Frerin, her high voice echoing in roars that reduced him to tears of laughter as he and Frerin hid in piles of gold until Dís found them and pounced, all of them shrieking and shouting until their father came. His lecture had been stern, 'you are Durins, Durins do not act like fools' but their grandfather had laughed and let his grandchildren pounce and try to steal the jewels from his fine beard.

* * *

  
  
"This is the farthest away from home we've ever been," Kíli whispers in his bedroll, rolling over onto his side to face Fíli who sighs.  
  
"That's what you said yesterday," he replies but rolls over too, blankets rustling.  
  
"I miss-" Kíli falters for long moments, squirming so he can bump his forehead against his brother's, a strong arm pulling him into a hug, "I sound like a child," he mutters with disgust instead of finishing his thought.  
  
"I miss mother too. I miss our room and the forge, mother's cooking."  
  
"I miss her scolding."  
  
"Hard not to when you always gave her so much more reason than I ever did."  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
They both huff out little laughs in the darkness, Thorin straining his ears to hear if they've dropped back off to sleep again.  
  
"I'd never wish I wasn't here but it's just hard, sometimes."  
  
"That it is, that it is. I thought I'd feel, y'know, princely? Like a warrior?"  
  
"I don't want to disappoint Thorin. I mean I don't want to disappoint any of them but especially not Thorin."  
  
Thorin remembers his nephews as little boys who shared a bed when it was cold or when one had a nightmare and didn't want to bother their mother who had to deal with them all day. As quietly as he can manage he wraps himself in his blanket and gets to his feet, making his way over to them; not quietly enough for they jump apart and apologise for not sleeping when they know they have an early start. He waves their words away and settles between them in a way he hasn't in a good decade or more, waiting patiently as they rearrange themselves. When they were small Kíli would fall asleep across his chest, a chubby hand around a braid, Fíli tucked under one of Thorin's arms, mumbling. They're big and broad now, hard muscle where they once had soft pudgy limbs and bellies. But Fíli still mumbles and Kíli still has flailing limbs.  
  
It isn't the first or last time he sleeps beside them and sometimes he simply wakes with them on either side or close to him but he never tries to shame them with it. He knows how it is to be homesick even if he wishes they were homesick for the place they are searching for rather than the place they left behind.

* * *

  
  
"You're a soppy old thing Thorin Oakenshield," Balin says one fine morning as they break camp. Thorin doesn't even waste the time pretending he doesn't know what Balin is talking about.  
  
"Would you be any different if Dwalin had sons?"  
  
"If Dwalin had sons I wouldn't go near them unless I was covered head to foot in good strong armour," Balin replies quickly with that familiar twinkle in his eyes and Thorin laughs for the thought of tiny Dwalins running around is at once hilarious and terrifying. "No one would think less of you laddie if you chose to be more open with looking after your heirs – I know Dori takes it too far with young Ori but you are our king, they understand that you love your heirs."  
  
Thorin should have known better to think that he could hide this successfully from Balin's ever watchful eyes but though he is not ashamed to dote upon his sister-sons, he knows that he must never be seen to indulge in favouritism and he must always appear as king and leader. "Aye but say nothing Balin, they have much to prove as well, I would not want them to think of themselves as needing to be coddled."  
  
It's a poor excuse but Balin nods and seems satisfied enough with it. Thorin will do as he will and Balin knows it well. They are not a soft people and even if it is impossible to be as subtle as he might like – for dwarves do not sleep well under the open sky and they all share a small camp – so long as it is not addressed he will remain happy. Let them roll their eyes or tease when he cannot hear. All of them do the same for their own kin and as he watches everyone shoulder their gear he spots Bilbo fixing one of Bofur's loose braids, the dwarf blushing and making rude gestures at a sniggering Nori and Dwalin with his free hand, Bilbo too preoccupied to notice.  
  
At least that'll be the talk of the camp and not the king under the mountain cuddling and caring for his two grown heirs.

* * *

  
  
"You know in the Shire," Bilbo begins, keeping pace with Thorin – hobbit feet have less difficulty on this terrain than sturdy dwarven boots it would seem, "there's nothing wrong with family doting on family. It's practically expected to make a fuss out of them even in company."  
  
"Are you going somewhere with this?" Thorin asks and before it might have been enough to make the hobbit fluster or cease to speak but Thorin makes sure he's giving a hint of a smile and his tone is not severe or sharp.  
  
"I only wondered why you seem to sneak about when you sneak your nephews some dinner or check their wounds even after Oin has declared them fit and well. Is it against some custom?" Bilbo is sincere, still worried about causing offense as he tries to grow accustomed to his position of respect within their party and, with a careful glance back to ensure there are few who will overhear, Thorin thinks of an answer.  
  
"I am a king as you know and they are my heirs, this is their first quest and they are eager to prove that they are worthy of being my heirs – when I am gone it will be Fíli who will be king with Kíli in a position befitting his name and blood too. I cannot be seen to favour or coddle them."  
  
"Oh, oh right! I don't think any would think any less of you, it makes sense when you've all lost so much to want to take care of what you still have. Doesn't it?"  
  
Sometimes Thorin wonders if Gandalf knew just how easily this hobbit might disarm dwarves and if that was part of his reasoning in sending him with them. Thorin manages not to stop and stare like a fool if only because he follows Bilbo's eyes to where his nephews scout ahead, heads bent together, quiet and trudging now instead of their purposeful strides of earlier.  
  
"They are dear to me," he says at long last, "we are a gruff folk and we are hardy not like those in the Shire, no offense."  
  
"None taken, I know that I'll still find a lot of this difficult," Bilbo says quickly in return.  
  
"Well there are those here who would help you." The whispers his nephews traded prove to be right when Bilbo glances over his shoulder, blushing when he looks back. Thorin's face betrays nothing as he continues to speak. "With those we love, well we care for them as we would any precious thing, wishing no harm to come to them."  
  
He leaves the hobbit to ponder over that (Thorin might not have placed a bet on how long it'll take Bilbo to fully understand Bofur's overtures but Dwalin has money at stake) as he digs through his pocket for the stash of sweets he took from his sister's home, favourites of his nephews all their lives. Quickening his pace to catch up with them, he holds out a hand with the sweets and gives them a wide smile when their tired faces light up.  
  
_I'm looking after them sister_ , he thinks as they discuss whether or not they should look for rabbits or quails to bolster their supplies, _just as dearly as if they were my own._


End file.
